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Yup, that’s my mother.
I kiss her on the cheek anyway. No reason to come out swinging.
I brace myself to hear all about her wedding plans for her upcoming fourth marriage.
“Mom, good to see you. You look so pretty.”
She looks down at her dress and smooths it across her lap. “I wore it for you, honey. It’s an Oscar.”
I know where she’s going with this. But I pretend I don’t. “For me? What do you mean?”
She shrugs, all innocent. “Well. I thought it might encourage you to, you know, level up your style.”
And there we have it.
“Mom, I love your style, but it’s not my style. I don’t try to get you to dress like me, so why do you try to get me to dress like you?”
She purses her lips and looks at her menu, as if she doesn’t already know what’s on it in spite of her frequent lunches here.
“Fine. I’ll cancel the appointment I made for you with my personal shopper.”
She looks crestfallen and if there’s anybody who can work my heartstrings, it’s Mom. She came from nothing, worked her ass off, and raised me alone aside from her revolving door of temporary husbands. She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s still my mom.
“Dating anyone?” she quips, sipping her iced tea sweetened with the Splenda packet she pulled out of her purse.
I shake my head. “No. It’s not a focus of mine these days. Just trying to keep my head above water at work.”
I consider telling her how hot Wyatt is but then she’ll ask me questions about him until the end of time, and God knows I will probably never see him again anyway.
Besides, she’s not just asking about guys I may have met, but those who seem like real prospects. Like marriage prospects.
“Is there a problem at work, honey?” she asks, her voice rising.
“The romance division is having problems, Mom.” Crap. Why did I even bring that up?
I brace myself.
“Honey, I don’t know why you waste time on romance.”
“I know you think that, Mom. I know you don’t like it. But I do. Hey, how’s work for you?”
Her face brightens. “I just got one of our authors booked for Good Morning America and got another picked for Reese’s Book Club.”
I have to hand it to my mother. She’s a whiz publicist.
“Why don’t you get out of romance, honey? I could see if they have any opening where I am.”
Doing PR for books is not my cup of tea. I prefer the thrill of finding new talent. The brilliant writer in the raw, just waiting to be discovered. I will find her—or him, I suppose—and cultivate that talent until they’re at the top of their game. That’s right. I want to find the next Nora Roberts. And I’ll be at her side, all the way.
“Mom, you know I like acquisitions, and you’ve already done enough opening doors for me. I need to find my own way at this point.”
It’s true. After my last firing, Cameron never would have even looked at my resume if he didn’t owe my mother a favor. She got one of his authors a write-up inPeople Magazineor some such, and afterward, they sold a shitload of books.
As lucky as I am that Mom opened doors for me to get an interview and be hired, she can’t keep me from getting laid off, if it comes to that. I’m on my own with that one.
“So, the wedding…” she says, and starts going over the details of her ‘elopement,’ which is anything but.
From what I know, eloping is meant to be quick, private, and quiet. Mom already has a ‘pared down’ guest list of one hundred of her closest friends and family, and her husband-to-be is gladly paying all the bills she’s running up.
